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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28934748">Choices</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/violinistvanya/pseuds/violinistvanya'>violinistvanya</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Fluff, Fluffy Ending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 12:49:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,426</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28934748</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/violinistvanya/pseuds/violinistvanya</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Vanya picks out her name.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Grace Hargreeves &amp; Vanya Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy &amp; Vanya Hargreeves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Choices</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i have other stuff to work on, but I stayed up all night writing this instead. yes, the other hargreeves siblings are kind of dicks. my vanya bias is strong.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The harsh sunlight of late afternoon kneeled through the parted curtains, spreading a slanted patch of warmth over the thick carpet. It infused the glass eyes of the various taxidermied creatures scattered about with an imitation of liveliness, and it shone upon the artful embossment on the fine books lining the antique shelves. The room was nearly silent- silent, that was, save for the occasional light rustle of paper as a page was turned, for there, sitting against the wall beneath the window with a book in her arms, was Number Seven.</p><p>
  <em>The double contact is very helpful in finding the right place for the fingers and hand on the fingerboard.</em>
</p><p>As she read the cramped text, Number Seven found her fingers bending automatically, as though around an invisible instrument. They were sore enough that even the slight movement stung- she had put her actual violin away after practicing all morning, and the constant contact from playing had taken its toll. Mom told her that she would get calluses, eventually, and then it wouldn't hurt so much. She hoped that was true.</p><p>But until the fresh blisters had receded a little, she would have to settle for this: reading Ivan Galamian's <em>Principles of Violin Playing and Teaching</em> while she waited for her siblings to get back from their latest mission. Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus, Number Five, and Number Six had left early that morning on their latest crime-fighting endeavor. She thought out the names of her newly-christened siblings slowly, meticulously, testing out the sound of them in her head.</p><p>Mom had been urging them to pick their names for a couple of weeks now. At first, they had all been doubtful. They had names, didn't they? They were Numbers One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, and Seven, just like Mom was Mom and Pogo was Pogo the sky was the sky. Soon enough, however, they'd started to get excited- or some of them had, at least.</p><p>Diego had been the first to decide on his, taking the very first name that Mom suggested. This came as no surprise to her; she knew how much her fiery brother resented being Number Two, a constant reminder of his subordinance to Luther's proud leadership. If he would only talk to her, she might be able to make him cheer up a bit. After all, she was no stranger to feeling inferior. But he ignored her like the rest.</p><p>Next was Allison. The name was smooth and confident and beautiful. It was all of the things that her sister wanted to be. Allison aspired to be famous one day, and Number Seven had no doubts that she would be. That was why, she had told them all, she had to pick her name quickly. Famous people couldn't go about changing their name on a whim. It wasn't good for their branding.</p><p>Luther had picked his name not long after Allison, which had come as a shock to absolutely no one. They would walk down to the dining hall together before meals, whispering each other's new names before dissolving into giggles while the rest of the siblings did their very best to pay them no mind.</p><p>Then came Klaus. Number Four was seldom perturbed by anything, and there was very little that he took seriously. It didn't surprise Number Seven that he had agreed to one of Mom's ideas without taking too much time to mull it over. Name or no name, she did not think that he would ever change much.</p><p>Of course, that left herself, Number Six, and-</p><p>There was a muffled popping sound, like a soap bubble being punctured. Soft though it was, it jolted her from her reverie at once. She smiled gently when found herself gazing up into a pair of bright green eyes. "Hi, Number Five."</p><p>"Number Seven," said the boy in a low, tired voice. He glanced around the room, gauging his whereabouts. "Hm. I was going for my room, but I suppose this will do."</p><p>"Are the others back yet?" Number Seven queried, standing up to face her brother. She was taller than him, but only barely- he was growing quickly.</p><p>He grimaced. "Not yet. Still signing autographs."</p><p>"Oh." It shouldn't have pained her like it did- the image of her siblings surrounded by cheering crowds, all stepping over one another for a fragment of their attention. But pain her it did- like someone had hit her in the stomach. "Why did you leave? Did Dad want you to come back?"</p><p>His jaw clenched visibly, and he pushed a hand through his already disheveled hair. "I got bored," he replied disdainfully.</p><p>"Won't Dad be angry?" she asked, biting her lip.</p><p>"You know, I don't think that I care," Five answered, then turned around and crossed over to the bookshelf. He began gliding his finger over the embellished spines, clearly consumed by his own thoughts.</p><p>She wondered what was troubling him. From what she had seen, he had once basked in the fame just as all of the others did. But as of late, Number Five hadn't seemed like himself. He'd been much edgier, and she often noticed him pacing like a caged leopard when she walked past his room. He woke up early and stayed up late- she'd observed half-empty mugs of dark coffee on his desk during lessons, and she assumed that he had started using caffeine to combat the fatigue that he was surely under. He also fought with their father far more frequently.</p><p>She noticed all of these things, but she didn't say a word. Probably she would only annoy him if she brought it up. He wasn't as cruel to her as Allison or Diego could be, but nonetheless, he was . . . well, he wasn't like her. He wasn't ordinary.</p><p>Still, it wasn't as though she didn''t want to talk to him. Between training and lessons, they seldom had a chance to converse. Number Seven strained to think of a conversation topic. "Have . . . have you thought of a name yet? I thought Mom had good ideas for you."</p><p>He shrugged, abandoning his perusal of the books and allowing his focus to drift back to her. "Not yet," he replied with a dismissive shrug. "I don't see the point, really."</p><p>"Luther, Diego, Allison, and Klaus seem to like them," she replied. The new names were still foreign on her tongue- it would take time for her to adjust.</p><p>"Diego and Klaus did it for Mom- Diego because he cares, Klaus because he wanted to get it off of his back. Luther did it for Allison. Who do I have to do it for?" Number Five mused, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully.</p><p>She pondered that assessment. It didn't seem quite right to her. "You don't think they did it for themselves? Not at all?"</p><p>"Why would they do it for themselves?"</p><p>"I don't know. Maybe it makes them feel special, having a name."</p><p>She wondered if it would make her feel special if she had one.</p><p>Number Five did not respond, and soon enough a buzz of noise floated in through the window: cars screeching against the curb, people shouting and clapping, the pattering of feet on cement. They sighed in unison. "The procession made it home alive," Number Five mumbled. With another pop and a flicker of whitish light, he vanished, leaving Number Seven alone in the quiet library.</p><p>----</p><p>"Ben," Number Seven echoed. "I like it."</p><p>"It's cool," Diego added.</p><p>"I think it's perfect for you," said Allison as she twined an arm around his waist, keeping the other wrapped around Luther.</p><p>"What about Benny? Can I call you Benny?" Klaus asked, poking his friend in the ribs.</p><p>The boy beamed as they all showered their compliments on him. "Thank you guys," he said. He puffed out his chest a little.</p><p>In a rare occurence, they were all gathered together, even Number Seven, at the foot of the stares. Mom was watching them from a short distance away, a proud smile gracing her perfect features. Dad was working in his office, and Number Seven wondered if Mom was telling him about their names. Whatever the case, he certainly wasn't using them.</p><p>"So that just leaves you, Number Five!" Luther remarked.</p><p>Number Five, who was hanging back somewhat, appeared less than thrilled at being singled out. "And Number Seven," he corrected curtly.</p><p>"Right," Luther acknowledged, blinking. They all looked at her for the shortest of milliseconds, then resumed their celebration of the most recently named Hargreeves sibling. She was a shadow once more. Suddenly unable to tolerate the happy energy that permeated the air, she detached herself from the others and ducked noiselessly into the library.</p><p>Her book was no longer sprawled on the floor where she had left it a week ago. Mom must have put it away. She eventually found it on the shelf, pulled it out, and once again sat down at the window.</p><p>
  <em>Lastly, in this discussion, it is necessary to consider what type of intonation ought to be used: the "tempered" or the "natural." This is not the place to go into the technicalities of the two systems.</em>
</p><p>She cloaked herself in Galamian's exploration of violin technique, layering the rows of precise diction around her mind until she was deaf to the roar of resentment that pressed upon her. But no matter how determinedly she tried to immerse herself in the book, she couldn't help but think of how happy Ben had looked when he told them his name. He looked more comfortable, somehow, more sure of himself- as though he had found something that was uniquely and entirely his own.</p><p>Could she ever find that? Something that sounded right to her- to her and nobody else? Would she know if she did? She didn't know. She had never had anything like it before, never had a power that belonged only to her. She wasn't strong. She couldn't jump through space, or bend airborne knives, or make people do whatever she wanted. She couldn't do anything. Distracted, she began flipping through the pages without actually processing any of them, stopping when she got to one that featured several old photographs of fingering positions. Even faded and cast in black and white, the familiar shape of the violin seemed to call out to her like a friend.</p><p>She didn't have a power. But at least she had her music. Her instrument, the sheets of scales and arpeggios that Mom brought her, and, of course, Ivan Galamian's book.</p><p>They couldn't make her as special as her siblings, regardless of how much she wished that they could.</p><p>But at least they belonged to her.</p><p>----</p><p>For the next couple of weeks, she struggled to think of a name. She scanned the list that Mom had given her a hundred times. Katerina, Natalya, Polina . . . none of them sounded quite right. She tested them out aloud, and it was like hitting a wrong note. Between long periods of thought, she always returned to her reading and her playing. She rather thought that her technique was improving.</p><p>"Have you decided yet, Number Seven?" Mom asked one day. They were in the living room- she had been trailing after Mom as she did the daily chores, as she often did when she had finished a session on her violin.</p><p>"I think so," she answered.</p><p>Mom smiled, displaying gleaming white teeth. "How wonderful! Which name did you pick from the list I gave you?"</p><p>She shifted her feet. "It isn't from the list, actually."</p><p>Mom arched a brow. "No? Well, then, what is it?"</p><p>"I'd like to be called Ivan," she declared. She had finally decided upon it the night before. It would be a perpetual reminder of what she wanted to be- not just a number, but someone who could change things. Someone people could learn from- could look up to.</p><p>But almost immediately, a voice rose from the other side of the room. "But that's a boy's name."</p><p>They both turned to see Allison standing in the doorway. She had a bag slung over her shoulder, bulging with shapes that she was convinced were snacks pilfered from the pantry. She had been off meet Luther, most certainly, when she'd stopped to eavesdrop on their conversation. Her sister's expression was not unkind, just confused, but a spark of irritation still fluttered up in her chest all the same. She wanted to speak, to defend her choice, but the words just tangled up on the way to her mouth.</p><p>"Allison, dear, you should be in training," Mom commented, frowning sternly. The girl shrugged and skipped off, clearly not finding the matter intriguing enough to persuade her to linger.</p><p>As soon as Allison was gone, she felt her anger dissolve. Sadness welled up in its place. "Do I have to pick another name?" she inquired, studying her skirt miserably.</p><p>Mom bent down and took her hands in her own- hers were cool and sleek. "Now, that's okay. If you'd like, we can come up with a name that's just a little bit different. What about that?"</p><p>"Okay," she agreed, unsure but hopeful.</p><p>Mom's tone shifted- it became crisp and informative. "Ivan is a masculine name of Slavic origin, ultimately derived from the Hebrew name Yochanan. Diminuitive forms include Ivo, Ivica, Vanya, Van-"</p><p>"What was that one?"</p><p>"Vanya?"</p><p>"That one. I . . . I like it." And it was true. It floated by her like a melody- like the sweet song of her violin.</p><p>"Vanya. How lovely!" Mom's dazzling smile reappeared. "And to Western ears, suitably feminine."</p><p>She heard what Mom was saying, but none of it really struck her as important. All that mattered was that she had a name.</p><p>Vanya.</p><p>----</p><p>Vanya met her siblings after training. They were all exhausted and soaked in sweat, with little enthusiasm to spare. She told them anyway- she couldn't wait.</p><p>"Nice," said Number Five wearily. The others nodded vaguely in agreement.</p><p>"It isn't a boy's name, but I still think it sounds a bit weird," said Allison bluntly.</p><p>Usually, that sort of comment would have hurt, but not today. Instead, Vanya just smiled. She was still smiling when, shortly before going to bed, she pulled out <em>Principles of Violin Playing and Teaching</em>. Sitting cross-legged on her mattress, she flicked to the page where she had left off.</p><p>
  <em>No violinist can play according to a mathematical formula; he can only follow the judgement of his own ear.</em>
</p><p>"Vanya," she whispered to the book. "My name is Vanya."</p><p>It was something, and it was hers.</p>
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